Literary pretendings, off-the-cuff insights and the occasional rant.

Excerpt from Wheatyard

It's Wednesday, which means that I'm a day late in posting this excerpt from Wheatyard, this time from chapter eight:

He certainly wasn't a sunbather. His pasty skin suggested he only went outdoors when he needed to—house to truck, and from truck to Simon's or Mullen's Tap or The Grind or Cellar Books. The sedentary act of sunbathing didn't fit him, nor the vain goal of a deep tan. I guessed that his house was such an oven that day that only sitting outside offered any relief. But not even being outside separated him from his writing; hence, the notebook and what must have been his latest misunderstood masterpiece.